Sickbed Entertainment
by kjollar
Summary: We know that Harry gets beat up annually to save the world. What does he do in the interim? Heals and writes his memoirs. Light slash.


For the longest time I had his image of Harry writing up his cases while recuperating from his latest confrontation with supernatural. Thank you, Dresden files kink_meme, for the kick to my inspiration butt!

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It was nighttime and the hospital was mostly quiet. That is, if you didn't take into account the rhythmical clank-clank of my typewriter. It was modern and sleek but still mostly mechanical so I didn't have to fear that it would spontaneously die on me in the most intense part of the narration.

So there I was, contentedly typing away and not paying much attention to the outside world.

"What are you doing?"

I froze. Then I slowly turned to the door of my room.

John Marcone stood there in all his hospital-pajamas-clad glory and smirked for all he was worth. The image wasn't marred in the slightest by patches of pinky new skin left by healing chilblains and a bandage over his left ear.

I felt my cheeks heating up a bit. I was caught with a hand in a proverbial cookie jar… or in proverbial pants, as far as embarrassment levels go. The bastard was literally dripping smugness, his mafia-senses clearly detecting potential blackmail material.

"I'm typing?" I decided to play the idiot card. Stars, how could I forget that he was right down the corridor from me? In my defense I could only say that Marcone generally escaped most of the damage so he only briefly visited me on my sickbed between various meetings dealing with collateral damage of my latest escapade.

"I see that," he sauntered in and plopped down on the edge of the bed completely disregarding the chair and any notion of personal space. "I'm curious about the content."

"Oh, it's just the draft of my memoirs," I put my bullshitting cap on, "to pass the time, you know."

"I see," the drawled, "so that future generations could admire your unfailing bravery and sparkling wit."

"Shut up, scumbag," I muttered petulantly.

John just hummed noncommittally and stretched his hand over my knees to the stack of already completed pages. I lunged for his wrist but was unfortunately hindered by the typewriter still sitting in my lap.

"The Dresden Files?" his voice was full of mirth. "So you have a different name in your memoirs?"

"All right, you caught me!" I exclaimed folding my arms. "I'm writing a book. Happy now?"

"Very. And I see it's not a recent development either," he commented noticing a damning number 10 after the title.

"Haven't you ever heard of…" I stumbled over words for a second, "my work before?"

"Sorry. You know I don't have time for reading fiction considering that most of the time I feel like I'm _living_ it."

"And my daily pursuits are not interesting enough for you to follow anymore?" No matter the circumstances my primary way of reacting stayed the same – sarcasm and banter.

"Are you accusing me of negligence?" John caught on, playing at affront.

"Yes, I am clearly not worth the effort anymore. That would be a lesson to me," I nodded wisely, "never stop resisting the Baron's advances, or you'll be taken for granted."

"I see I was remiss in showing my appreciation," John purred seductively, leaning closer. His hand sneaked up to my throat, "let me remedy that…" and he guided my head into a kiss.

His lips were chapped and forceful, massaging mine and demanding an entrance. Despite my previous words I was not offering any resistance; I invited him it gladly, tangling my tongue with his in a sensual dance. He issued a quiet hungry sound that went straight to my cock and I yanked him closer wishing for his body to cover mine completely and demonstrate the extent of his… appreciation for me.

The movement unfortunately jolted several of my injuries. John, who never had trouble distinguishing my pleasured groans form the pained ones, backed off immediately though I wasn't all that willing to let him go.

"No need to start what we obviously won't be able to finish," he said a bit hoarsely lifting my hands from his shoulders and lowering them to the bedspread after placing a small kiss on the knuckles of each one. There was definitely something gentlemanly in him… (A certain tightness between my legs argued that it wouldn't hurt either of us if he were less of a gentleman sometimes)

John shifted his gaze from my (slightly) disappointed face to the typewritten pages that he somehow managed to move to the bedside table before the kiss. "Now. Since I have an opportunity I can check your book out, if you like."

That wasn't really a question and I was sure he wouldn't return the draft even if I begged for it. So I took it like a man, waving indulgently as if his reading my work didn't bother me in the slightest.

Several minutes were spent in tense silence. John was – or pretended to be – engrossed in the story while I tried to gauge his reaction from the expression of his face. Predictably, it revealed exactly nothing – you can't rise to the top of the Outfit without developing an impenetrable poker face. In the end I gave up and returned to typing because, you know, staring at someone's face can hold your interest only that long even if the person in question is one of your nearest and dearest. My nervousness faded with every typed letter and soon I was back in the thick of things.

I returned to the present when the freshly finished page was plucked from my typewriter and placed on top of the stack. I watched as Marcone read it over quickly and raised his eyes to mine.

"Did you really have that much trouble while searching for me?" The displeasure in his tone was clear.

I've given him a rundown of the events leading to his rescue on our way to his private hospital but now he apparently thought I've been holding back on the gruesome details.

"That's an embellished version," I hurried to reassure. "The more I get beat up the better; readers just eat it up… or so I'm told."

"Really?" Marcone was obviously not convinced. I had a premonition of 24/7 surveillance in the foreseeable future. "I've also noticed a certain… reluctance to come to my aid," he accused.

"That bit has no basis in reality whatsoever!" I stated earnestly. "You know I'm always ready to get your ass out of danger."

"M-hm. You don't even work for me."

"Look, I just decided that my character needed to have more rigid moral principles," I explained. "So he rejected your advances. It's not very thrilling to read that the protagonist has a squad of hitters on his beck and call to help him solve most of his problems."

"You're using my real name." The tone went absolutely flat. _Shit_.

"On one knows it anyway," I tried for nonchalance, "even your alias isn't common knowledge. Is it really a problem for you?"

His eyes – whose color I extolled at length in most of my books – lowered to the stack of papers again and he frowned minutely. I had a minor epiphany.

"Come on, John, it's not like I'm writing my secret diaries here! These are not my deeply hidden desires or anything – it's just fiction. Every time I'm thinking up new and creative ways to land my character in deep shit I mentally pat my back for having enough brains to accept your offer when you first made it." Stars, I never thought I'd have to reassure him of my desire to stay by his side.

I never thought he's capable of having doubts of that at all…

"How did you start writing?" The question was simply worded – a sure sign that Marcone was a bit shaken.

"Well, at first it was just a way to escape boredom," I was glad for the change of topic myself – as much love and affection as I held for John, I was crap at expressing it. "At the end of the day, when good prevails over evil and the baddie of the month is dealt with I always seem to land in a hospital with nothing to do while your torturers – I mean, doctors – prattle on about bed rest and recuperation. So after that whole Victor Sells fiasco I took up the pen… getting it all on paper actually helped me put everything into perspective," I confessed. "But then one of the nurses found my notebook while changing the sheets and asked me if I was a writer. One thing led to another and I ended up sending it to the publishers. The rest, as they say, is history."

Marcone shook his head with a smile.

"Am I to understand that you books are popular?"

"I guess," I scratched my head awkwardly, "at least, they regularly extend my contract."

"And there is no shortage of new story lines either," he mused.

I scowled; despite our lighthearted chatter I would have happily lived without the latest plot development – those few days of not knowing if John was even alive would be haunting me for years to come.

"Does anyone know of your hobby?" he obviously felt the drop of my mood and hurried to change the topic.

"I doubt it; people involved in supernatural affairs tend to skip the fiction section in the bookstore, to say nothing of the Sidhe courts. Though…" I paused for a moment, "I suspect that Hendricks knows."

"Why?"

"Recently he acquired this annoying habit of growling at me when no one is listening…" Marcone raised a questioning eyebrow. "I maybe happened to call him Cujo once or twice in the series," I admitted sheepishly.

"You're incorrigible." There was a definite note of affection in his voice. "What do you call me then?"

"You'll have to read the books to find out," I replied cheekily, my previous embarrassment long forgotten. "One hint though: I still use my favorite pet-name." That earned me a chuckle.

Then John unexpectedly got up from the bed and turned to the door.

"Hey, where're you going?" I pouted.

"Well, since I have a lot of free time to kill I might as well look your masterpieces up," he smirked returning his gaze to me, "though I have to stay in my room if I want my laptop to survive long enough to read them," he nodded to himself.

I smiled at him. We both knew that he was far from idle even while staying in the hospital. I felt pleased beyond words that he would take some time out of his busy schedule to read my silly stories just because it was me who wrote them.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" I muttered coyly.

"Of course not."

His mouth was still smirking when it met mine. Our kiss was almost chaste but it still encompassed all the feelings we held for each other – affection, devotion, possessiveness and so much more… No matter what Harry Dresden said to and about John Marcone I've long accepted the wonderful, complicated man behind the mask and never intended to surrender him to anyone or anything.

"Good night, John," I whispered when we parted, looking deeply into his eyes, wanting to convey everything I wasn't able to put to words.

"Good night, Jim," his lips curled into a contented smile and I couldn't resist pecking him one last time before letting him go.

I settled back on my pillows and poised my fingers over the keyboard.

Life was definitely so much better than fiction.

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Ok, hope you noticed the hint_name_hint XD


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